


I'm Sorry For Your Pain

by nellie_faye



Category: Dickensian (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Mistakes, Regrets, Self-Loathing, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 07:17:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5996553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nellie_faye/pseuds/nellie_faye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after the events of Episode 10. Meriweather Compeyson, having just thrashed Arthur Havisham for his drunken delinquency, leaves the Three Cripples and takes a walk, to consider what it is he has just done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Sorry For Your Pain

In his haste to leave the Three Cripples behind him, Meriweather Compeyson forgot about the uneven floorboard at the door. To anyone watching, he must have looked like a drunkard, stumbling across the threshold and out into the street. But in that moment, only one thought occupied his mind: _get out, get away…_

It was the middle of the night, and though the snow had long since melted, it was still deathly cold outside. Frost clung to the cobblestones, and to the glass windows of the shops along the pavements on either side. Meriweather looked forward, down the main street, which if he were to follow would lead him straight to Satis House. He shook his head. His thoughts were muddled - he couldn’t go there. 

Instead of following that well-lit road, Meriweather turned away down one of the city’s many alleyways, and walked. There was no particular path he intended to take, no destination he was planning on arriving at - he just had to get _away_. Away from the cloying smell of brandy, from the leering face of the pub landlord, and from the boy he had left behind, sobbing in his bed. 

 

Meriweather had never been a believer of the common notion that a long, brisk walk was a remedy for all of life’s ills. It was a philosophy his mother had always preached, and one he had even heard Amelia say, from time to time. It was supposed to be something about fresh air in the lungs, the rhythm of one’s strides matching the heartbeat… but how were these thing to be of benefit, when all he could think about was the looseness about his waist, where the familiar pressure of his belt would have sat? 

He hadn’t stopped to pick up the leather strap from where it had fallen, on the opposite side of the bed. Arthur had not moved a single inch since the assault, and though his trembling had died down after a while, quiet sobs had been enough to tell Meriweather that the boy was still awake. It was not sleep which kept the boy so still, but a paralysis of fear, which would have only worsened if Meriweather had stooped to retrieve his belt. 

Now, the thought of the warm, supple leather in his hand, weighed down by the buckle on the other end, made Meriweather feel sick. He wouldn’t lie to himself, and say that he had had no idea why he did what he did - he knew perfectly well why. Returning that evening from Satis House, he had known exactly the manner in which he would teach Arthur his lesson. Seeing the boy, sprawled out on the bed and giddy with alcohol, had only driven him further. From the moment he had kissed Amelia goodnight to the clamping of his hand around Arthur’s neck, he had never once questioned his anger. 

So why now did he feel so disgusted with himself? Meriweather knew his own temper, his own strength - and besides, the boy’s actions could have been disastrous, and were well deserving of a punishment. He had given far worse for far less, in the past. Only now, with Arthur, it was different. 

 

When Meriweather had come to London, beckoned at once by a letter from the young Havisham, he had had no doubts about the plan they had agreed to carry out. Only when Arthur’s resolve had begun to slip, and his bitterness against Amelia had begun to wane, had Meriweather been left with no choice but to change tactics. Mild threats and intimidation had become necessary, just enough to keep Arthur in line and compliant with their plan. But tonight, it had become something more twisted, more perverse. Arthur was a _boy_ , eight years younger than Meriweather, and in his demoralized and weakened state, he had had no chance of holding his own. 

And Meriweather could still feel it now - the clammy heat on the back of Arthur’s neck, and the sweat which had soaked the curls of his hair and plastered them to his skin. The way he had had no time to squirm, and instead had just lay there, taking blow after blow while his hands grasped helplessly at the bed sheets. Now that his anger had diminished, Meriweather felt sickened at what he had done. It had been no fair fight, not man-on-man as it had been in the past - Meriweather had always been careful to only pick fights with those who could defend themselves. But tonight, with Arthur, it had been nothing short of abuse. 

Tugging off the leather glove from the hand which had dealt the blows, Meriweather laid the skin of his palm against the rough brick of the alleyway wall, and walked. He did not alleviate the pressure with which he pressed his flesh to the stone, even when it began to burn and the small grains in the mortar tore into his skin. He clenched his jaw and abided the pain, as Arthur had done. 

He carried on walking.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little scribble I did, reimagining Compeyson to be the type to be guilt-ridden after his horrible actions. Obviously, in the show, he's not (see: Arthur waking up to death-threats, lovely). 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!


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